Life as a Shadow
by fallenjedipadawan
Summary: Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern, Jace to his friends, may be the most popular boy at school. But school and home are entirely separate places and what may be loved at school is never tolerated by an oppressive father.
1. Of Soccer and Dinner Parties

**a/n: I've never quite understood why in all the non shadowhunter stories Clary either lives/has lived with an abusive Valentine. Yet her mother could have just as easily left him in a world without shadowhunters. I mean I've even done a story in this fashion but still…Logically, at least to me, a nonshadowhuner Jace would live with him instead. ((Don't even get me started on all of the BA Clary stories. :D)) So here is a three(Perhaps four)-shot with my view on the matter.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Mortal Instruments series or any characters affiliated with them.**

**Life as a Shadow**

**Of Soccer and Dinner Parties**

"Morgenstern."

My head isn't the only one that turns towards the man who barks the name, my name. He's always had that affect on people; he's like a black hole in the middle of a galaxy, even those who he doesn't even know exist can't turn their attention away from him: not strangers in the super market, not the executives of his company, not even the boys on my team who have known him for years.

"Morgenstern." He says my name again; the demanding tone carries none of the pride that is posses when he introduces the same last name in association with himself. I know what's going to come, a rebuke for allowing one of the boys to steal the black and white ball from under my feet. "You're slacking today. Playing sloppy, I bet if I went to the kindergarten right now I could find a dozen little girls who could do better than you. Lewis." He calls towards a boy slumped on the bench who sits up with a start as his name is called. "You're in while Morgenstern does laps to try until he can figure out which foot is his right and which is his left. Maybe then he'll be able to handle the ball."

The boy awkwardly rises, we both know he never expected to play, and adjusts his glasses. I heard complaining to one of his "band mates" once about his mom forcing him to join the soccer team because she was worried that he was never involved in anything at school. How he had gotten onto the varsity team was beyond me, maybe his mother had let my father screw her in exchange for putting him on the team. "Um, Mr. Morgenstern, sir. I really think Jace is better for the team than me."

"Did I ask you how I thought you played? Now get in there!"

As I brush past Simon he mutters, "Sorry."

And I snarl back, quietly so my father doesn't hear, "Stuff it, Lewis. You and I both know I deserve to be the one playing. You ought to be at home trying to avoid the sun by playing World of Warcraft with your virtual friends." He looks like a fish gasping for air as he tries to retort, knowing my father will be furious if I delay laps any longer I push past him and jog towards the coaches.

"Laps. Go." My father points down the track that surround the soccer field we practice on.

"How many?"

"Until I decide you're done. Now get moving." He doesn't even look at me, a guess a small miracle because he would see the rebellion in my expression-I'm barely managing to keep myself from arguing by biting the inside of my cheek. I shoot him one last angry look, barely managing to duck my head in time as he looks up, as I begin to slowly jog down the length of the track, slightly picking up my pace as I hear a shout to hurry up and know it's directed at me.

Soon I find a steady pace, relishing the feeling of the hard asphalt colliding with the soles of my shoes and traveling up my legs. As long as I focus on keeping my steps even and my breathing I can tune out my father encouraging the other boys on the soccer team, boys that make any number of penalties that my father doesn't comment on. As I turn the corner of the track for who knows what lap, I didn't even bother to start counting, I glimpse the gangly boy my father had replaced me with touch the ball with both hands and none of the coaches even bat a lash.

I jerk my eyes back towards the track in front of me, trying to suppress my annoyance or else I'll do something rash that I'll end up regretting. Yet, how can I not be annoyed? My father knows I'm the best soccer player at our school, in our league, maybe even in the region-soccer scouts have been watching me since sophomore year, schools offer scholarships that I don't need to come play for them-exactly what my father expects of me and yet I'm still replaced by a benchwarmer.

"Did I tell you that you could stop?" His voice, suddenly loud in my ear causes me to lift my head and look up at him. I know he's trying to get me to actually stop so he can have a real excuse to punish me and so I refuse to stop. I know my pace has flagged, my chest is heaving with the effort, and I can fill fresh sweat plastering my blonde hair to my forehead but I'm still jogging. "You're barely even moving. I said I wanted you running laps and when I said running I meant running. Keep up, next time I want you running this pace."

With that he takes off, practically at a full out sprint, down the length of the track. I'll never be able to keep up with him even when I'm in top condition, I've tried before, and now with half a soccer game in addition to more laps than I would care to think about I don't even hold half a chance. When I finally reach him impatiently waiting for me at the end of the track he steps towards me so only I can hear him. "You can't even run for a little ways? My God, what kind of weak child did I raise?" Before he adds more loudly. "Go cool down, you're done for today."

I don't bother following his instructions, though I know my body will protest loudly later in the evening, and instead of cooling down I head around the bleachers, out of my father's sight, and drop on my back to the grass still damp from the morning's rain storm. I soon hear the sound of soft footsteps approaching me and a sigh as someone sits. "Consider yourself lucky for not having to play with Lewis. He's got the reflexes of a dead body." My best-friend, Alec, says in that soft voice of his.

"That terrible?"

"Yeah, that bad. If Izzy hadn't told me all about Edward Cullen and his dreamy super human abilities I would guess vampire, they're dead right? And dead people have terrible reflexes."

I just laugh and shake my head at this suggestion. "How the hell did county Lewis make it on our team?"

"I'm ze count and unless you vant me to suck you're blood you let me play on your team." Alex said, with a terrible Romanian accent, leaning over me and biting down on his own lip.

"You're an idiot." I push him off me, though he knows I don't mean it, my laughter gives me away. He simply shrugs and sits back, that's something I like about him he always knows when enough is enough, we can talk for hours but when there is nothing to say he never feels the air with pointless noise like so many others in our generation.

"Morgenstern." Apparently my father is still in coach-mode, or else he would have called me by my given name instead. I don't know how many times other people on my team have commented on how jealous they are, their parents often don't show up to games and I have my father for the assistant coach. But I know I would rather my father not show up to a single game all year than have him at practice everyday.

He's getting closer now, his calls sound louder, and I prop myself up on my elbows to look in the direction I had last seen him. "And thus he calls again." I stand up and offer a hand to Alec so I can pull him to his feet as well.

"Text me."

"Remember I lost my phone. I already told you this." It's not actually a lie, it's just a twist of the truth; I'm a terrible liar, somehow I just can't tell a flat out lie, but as long as it's a slightly distorted version of the truth no one doubts me. I didn't lose my phone, at least not in the sense Alec thought I did, I actually knew where it was-locked in the bottom drawer of my father's desk in his study, a punishment for texting during dinner-but since there was no way I could get to it I counted it as good as lost.

His dark blue eyes look disbelieving but he eventually says. "Well then make him get you a new one."

"Fat chance." Until my father deems me worthy of getting my old cell phone back I won't be touching another phone. "It's whatever. I'll see you Monday or something."

"Monday? Tomorrow's Saturday, we don't have a game; we could actually do something with our lives."

"Grounded." I reply simply and turn to leave and then elaborate so he doesn't wonder what I did know to upset my father. "Cause of my phone."

"Well that's a load of bull."

I shrug. Honestly I couldn't agree more but there was nothing I could do about it; last night I had tried arguing with my father about him taking my phone the only time I had ever texted at dinner, all this had done was infuriate him even more and I had to endure a lengthy lecture about respect and obedience in that eerily quiet tone my father used when he was aggravated at me, and that was just the beginning.

He's waiting for me now, arms crossed impatiently, and standing at the base of the bleachers. His dark eyes bore into me as if waiting for me to respond to Alec's comment, for me to say something that will give him an excuse to forbid me to talk to the other boy. So I just nod and leave him there without a farewell, silently following my father to the car.

My father could be the president of the My-car-cost-more-than-you-house-and-is-about-the-same-size club but even riding in the back seat feels to close to the man in this enclosed area. We live too far outside of town for it to be a quick, if painful, drive; our house is several miles outside of town and it takes nearly thirty minutes to get there from the school, but those thirty minutes always feel much longer. I don't even understand how he keeps us on the road because on days, like today-when he feels I haven't played soccer at an acceptable level, or gotten the best grade on a test, or whatever else I didn't standards in that day-he seems to look at the road because he's too occupied with glaring at me in the rearview mirror. Some days I glare back, on others I would rather just try and avoid the promise of the lecture to come and stare out the window or read a book the entire time.

Today is a window day and I watch the scenery fly pass, the distant mountains look as if there is a hint of snow on them and promise of winter that's quickly approaching, the houses that slowly become farther and farther apart as they grow increasingly larger, and finally the lake my father and I sail on that signifies we're approaching our property. My father slows as he drives down the gravel covered driveway and I know at any second he'll start ripping into me about practice today but instead all he says is. "I'm having some of my associates over for dinner today. I expect you to look presentable when they arrive. Or you can eat in the kitchen."

"Well then expect me to look my worst. I'll go check if I have a shirt that just screams filthy." I mutter, not turning away from the window I'm still staring at.

He heard me, even though I kept my voice low. "Then I guess you won't be eating at all."

I roll my eyes and I'm sure he sees it in the rearview mirror; a muscle in his cheek tightens at my action, a blatant show of disrespect in his eyes. But he can't do anything about it. What would his coworkers think if his "perfect son" came down to dinner with the mark of a heavy hand still poppy-red on his face?

We haven't even come to a complete stop in our garage before I'm out of the car and unlocking the door into the house. I glance wistfully at my car, smaller than my father's but still enough to turn heads at its sleek design and whispering engine, if only I was allowed to drive myself to and from school instead if riding home with my father each day after practice. My father insists I would never come home on time and on weekends I would use it to drive to parties and bars with my friends, trying to find a pretty girl and a cold glass of alcohol. Which in some ways would be what I would do, after all I learned from the best, someone I'm supposed to mirror in almost every way. I'm inside by the time my father has gotten out of the car and opened his mouth to scold me about getting out of the car when I did.

In my room I throw my soccer bag on my neat bed, the impact creating a dent and wrinkles ripple outwards over the dark blue surface like a pebble cast into the depths of a lake. Instinctively I move to straighten out the cloth, Alec would call me OCD for doing it, at my father's urging, and the work of a maid, my room has always been remarkably neat. Honestly I think if a stranger were to walk into this room they would never guess a seventeen year old boy lived in it, there is no mess on the floor, the books on the matching bookshelf and desk are neatly organized, the white walls are void of any decoration, my clothing is hidden out of sight-the one messy part of my room-in a chest of drawers, and the bed coverings, the only source of color, is as neat as pin. The only thing that would give me away is a soccer ball, partly hidden beneath by desk, and the soccer bag that now rests on my bed.

"Jonathan Christopher!" I hear his voice over the music softly playing on my iPod, Mozart's requiem mass in D minor. This music is far more powerful than anything anyone in my generation has produced, at least in my opinion; it makes you feel things, deep in your heart, that you never feel anywhere else. "Get down here. People will be getting here soon and I want to make sure you don't look like complete trash."

I slide my iPod into my pocket. "Just a second." I lean out of my bedroom door and respond before entering the bathroom connected to my bedroom. As I button the black, dress shirt I had retrieved from my closet I glance at my reflection, my hair needs a trim my father insists with its unruly curls and deep blonde it's much like a lion's mane. One I feel sure he will be satisfied with my appearance I pad down the stairs and silently prop myself against the wall just outside of the library, arms across my chest, and pose casual.

"Well don't you look monochromatic?" My father says as he inspects me, gesturing at my black top, pants, and dark leather shoes. "Don't you have a little color somewhere?"

I raise an eyebrow and slowly look down at what he's wearing, black from head to toe. "Doesn't this just give the pot calling the kettle black a whole new meaning?"

"Don't be a smartass." He responds, but I see the corners of his mouth twitch towards a smile. It's something he would have said if I had remarked on the lack of color in his wardrobe and he knows it.

"Mr. Morgenstern, a Mr. Hodge Starkweather is in the foyer for you." The maid's voice is timid as she announces the arrival of the first of my father's guests. Of course he would be the one to arrive first, he was my father's friend in college, and ever since my father got one of his big time lawyers to get him off of house arrest for adding a wanted criminal he's been aggravatingly loyal.

The way my father reclines, arm casually placed on the piano, is almost designed to draw attention to him as soon as anyone enters the room. "Show him in." He speaks to the maid as if she isn't even there, his eyes looking instead to the crackling fire in the fireplace. "Jonathan Christopher." He chides, it's like he knows what I'm doing without looking, and I guiltily place the brandy decanter back where it belongs.

"Valentine, it's been to long." The man enters the room with a bang as the heavy wooden door slams into the bookshelf behind it and I inwardly wince. He shakes my father's hand and then turns to me. "And, John, aren't you growing into a handsome young man? You look more and more like your father every time I see you." I shake his hand but as soon as his back is turned I roll my eyes.

He was my tutor for several years when I was younger, he should know I detest being called John or Jonathan or Jonathan Christopher. And that statement about looking like my father is a complete lie; whereas my father is tall and broad shouldered, I am several inches shorter and don't stand a chance at ever reaching his sturdy build; his hair is white blonde and never out of place, mine is a darker blonde and has a mind of its own; my own strangely colored eyes, very nearly a gold, hold nothing of the dark brown that he posses; why even our hands look nothing alike, his are large, solid looking hands-the hands people would like in a politician, the hands of a worker, my fingers are long slender-the hands of a musician, perfect for playing the piano.

Soon the room feels just as stuffy as the people filling it. If I could I would slip away to my room to catch a breath of air that didn't reek of expensive perfume and cologne but I've been trapped by a heavyset woman who is clutching a glass of brandy as if it was just announced that prohibition had returned to the states. "So, Jonathan, how is school going for you? You're in what eighth, ninth grade now?"

"Actually I'm a senior this year." I would haven't been so nice about correcting the idiotic mistake if I hadn't felt my father's gaze on me. "It's going fairly well. I'm the captain of the soccer team again this year and I'm taking several honors classes as well."

"Well isn't that nice?" She has that expression adults get when they're pretending to listen to you but their thoughts are actually a million miles away.

"I'm also cheating on my girlfriend with a number of boys from school and to keep things exciting I spend an ungodly amount of my father's money on prostitutes."

She doesn't even bat an eyelash, proving me correct in thinking she wasn't listening to me. "I'm sure you father is quite proud of you."

I barely manage to suppress a snicker at this, "My father is my example. He taught me everything he knows about it."

This she seems to hear, "Do you know what my father taught me?" And she begins to regress into telling me all about her relationship with her father, a story that could be a more effective form of torture than water-boarding. Luckily I'm saved by the announcement that dinner was ready and we were to move into the dinning room, I manage to slip into a seat relatively far away from the woman so I don't have to continue listening to the story.

I am the picture of what is expected of a teen at their parent's boring business dinner, slouched in my chair, twirling the salad fork between my fingers, and elbow propped on the teen-a horrible infraction any etiquette course. It's nice not to have to try talk to anyone around me as they chat about their own interests and instead I can listen to their inane conversations as I eat the food in front of me, really these people talk about things that really doesn't matter to anyone else on the planet.

This doesn't last long before I hear my father say, "Did you know that my son is ranked the second soccer player for his age in the state?" Of course I'm the only who knows that he doesn't mean it as the complement it seems; I know what he really means is "Did you know that my son isn't good enough to be the top soccer player in the state?"

"Oh, really?" The man to my right, an old associate of my father, whose dark eyes have always made slightly uncomfortable, asks and I shrug noncommittally

"That's what they're saying. But they have it wrong." I give him a slow smile. "I'm the best in the state; they're just too hung up on some show off whose going to end up playing for a year in college and then disappearing."

The people around me chuckle at this comment; adults always seem to find the most stupid things entertaining.

"And your father is your coach again this year, right?" A man sitting at the far end of the table asks. When I nod he continues. "You must consider yourself very lucky."

Yeah, as lucky as someone who just got a sharpened pencil shoved through their throat. I doubt replying with this would go over very well so instead I shrug. "Yeah, it's pretty cool."

"When is you're next game? Maybe I'll be able to come see it."

"Sat-"

"Next Saturday." My father interrupts me and it's like I've been pushed into the background again. "We're playing Pravus High next week."

"Do me a favor and send those demons back where they belong." A man, Rochester, sitting near my father says, his tone light. But I know he's serious about getting rid of them, as is everyone else here. Seems as if you want to be an executive in Circle Medicine, my father;s company, that have to detest anything having to do with immigrants and their offspring.

"I've been considering running for a seat in the senate." My father says. I haven't heard anything of this idea yet, but he doesn't always inform me of every aspect of his life—which I'm glad for. "Base my campaign around tightening the borders and removing those…creatures, by any means necessary. Make sure our country retains it's pure blood, only those who belong should be allowed here."

Strange since my father has no qualms for paying these people he hates an inordinately low amount to ensure our bathrooms stayed pristine and everything else he feels as if he's too good to do.

Actually, I imagine sitting in on a dinner with Adolph Hitler must have sounded like, talking about superiority of certain races and destroying all less favorable. Thank God my father never met the man; the two of them would have gone haywire decimating groups of people together.

**An: This is actually the intro to the first part but I decided it was going to be entirely too long to manage soon so I snipped it in half, which is why it isn't particularly exciting. All of that comes next one (hopefully up within the next week.). So look forward to seeing some of your favorite characters Maia, Raphael, and Maryse. Jace fighting a "demon". Disciplinary action by Valentine. And fear of the cellar at Morgenstern Manor. **

**If anyone can find all of the references to people/events/ideas in the Mortal Instruments I'll insert a small (really small) character that you create into the story. :D **

**Anyways please drop a review, it motivates me to get the good parts to you.**


	2. Or Demons and Cellars

**An: Alright, kiddies, time for part two. Oh and just a little tidbit. The name of the school Jace's soccer team is playing means evil in Latin, something I deemed appropriate for a school with the mascot of a devil and the worst enemies of Jace's team. Reviews+Awesome sauce.**

**Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, or events are the property of Cassandra Clare.**

**Of Demons and Cellars**

I do it because my friends are watching and because I'm so pumped for the game all logic had fled in the wake of adrenaline. She attends Pravus High so I know I'll undoubtedly never see her again and doing it doesn't bother me in the least. I guess she must be a furry, with the wolf-ear head band on top of her braided her and the dog collar at her throat, this means she sticks out as an oddity-the reason why my friends choose her.

I wait until the bookish man she is talking to meanders towards the concession stand before approaching her. I flash her a grin, one I knew girls can't help but notice, and casually lean against the bleachers underneath her, "You here to see someone special or just how a game of soccer ought to be played?"

"My adopted brother is playing. My father never misses a game." She nods towards the boys from the other team and then turns away, indicating she doesn't want to talk.

"So that's it? No boyfriend to speak of?"

"Not at the moment. My last one was a cheating bastard who apparently prefers rich sluts."

"So that would explain the get up? Not trying to impress anyone?" Me eyes slowly travel up and down her body. "Or trying to scare anyone like him off?"

"Excuse me?" Her head whips around and her tone sounds how shocked she is that I would say something like that. "I don't even know you and you're already acting like an ass-hole. I guess what they say is true?"

"Oh and what is it these mysterious people say?" I raise an eyebrow.

"That while you may have an angel as a mascot all of you trust fund babies here act like dicks."

I snort, they always seem to think that. "What can I say? We're entitle too it. When you aren't an anchor baby you can act however you want." If she raises her eyebrows any further she's going to have to have them surgically removed form her scalp.

"You're unbelievable!" She jumps to her feet. "I'll tell your coach you're harassing me!" I smirk and turn to show the last name on my jersey. "Oh, just 'cause you're daddy is coach and bribed the other coaches to let you on the team you think you can act however you like. I wanna see you somewhere where you don't have your precious daddy around to protect you so you can say whatever you want. Come into the town someday and say something like that. My boys will kick your ass!"

I choke back a laugh, "Your boys?" I catch a glimpse of a tattoo of a wolf poking out from under her tank top. "Aww, you're in a gang? Isn't that adorable? Guess that makes you the pack bitch?"

"Get lost, pretty boy." She snarls, I've obviously hit a nerve but I know my friends will think I wimped out if I don't keep pressing her.

"Oh, so you think I'm good-looking? I know that I look pretty damn near angelic. Glad to see you aren't as blind as what you're wearing would suggest." I think she might slap me if she wasn't awkwardly leaning over the railing above me.

"I swear…if you don't get out of here right now. I'll-I'll-"

I cut her off before she finishes. "Call your boys?" I wink and clap my hands around my mouth, my blonde hair tickling my neck as I lean my head back and howl. A well muscled man with a scarred face turns at the noise and he glares at me. "Is that your alpha? Try to shoot himself in the face for having to deal with psychos like you all day?"

She's fuming now and I know my friends will be pleased at the performance, nearly everyone is looking at us now casting pointed stares at the girl's strange attire. I take a step back and shrug. "Well enjoy the game. I'll be the one destroying your team." I cast her another false smile before turning on my heel and jogging back towards my friends, exchanging a few high fives as I return.

"Dude, did you see her face? She's never gonna come watch a game here again; makes one less rotten demon to deal with." Will, our team's keeper states and then jerks his head in the direction of a person dressed in a demon costume, Pravus High's mascot. "Maybe we out to see how well that fabric burns."

Even this is a little much for me, while I may hate the other school I'm not going to do something that stupid. "Nah, we'll all get kicked off the team and that means Verlac won't have anyone to put him in his place."

"Which you _are_ going to do today, right?" Alec asks and I roll my eyes.

"Of course. I heard someone say there are supposed to be some scouts here today and there is no way I'm letting them pick him over me." I spare a glance towards the boy that is apparently better then me.

He stands separate from his team, except for one boy, his silvery hair bright in the sun light and a look of disdain plastered on his fine features. The boy he is talking to is one of the few on his team I've ever seen him talking to expected to be team Captain when Sebastian graduates next year. He looks like a number of other boys on his team, dark hair and eyes with tan skin, he's a decent player but that isn't what makes him stand out; this boy, Raphael, is so infatuated with religion it's almost unsettling, there's a rumor going around that he held a crucifix in a flame until it was red hot before pressing it to his chest, leaving a white scar in the shape of the cross, so that he would always have a reminder to whom he was devoted.

When the team captains are expected to shake hands Sebastian and I stare stonily at each other, giving a tense handshake that is over almost before it begins. Before he returns to his team he leans towards me. "They're gonna need a body-bag when I'm done with you, Morgenstern."

I respond with a lazy smile. "Better watch yourself, Verlac. Threats like that sound awful unsportsman like."

The game isn't going as planned for Sebastian, I can tell that by his expression when I slide past him to sink the soccer ball in the corner of his goal. His team is trailing by three points and I know that this is something he doesn't know how to handle, he hasn't lost a game in years and now it's happening in front of the people who could decide our futures. "Hey, Verlac, maybe you ought to drop back down to JV. I'm sure there is someone there who might be worse than you. Though, even if they had Lewis on your team I doubt that would be likely." I brush past him and I see the only reason he doesn't retort is because we're in earshot of his coach.

The next time I dart in and steal the ball from underneath his feet his temper, which is known for being remarkably short, snaps. He's fast, one of his biggest advantages in the game, and as I tear away from him with the ball I can hear his feet pounding along behind me; of course, I expect him to go after the ball so it takes me by surprise when he throws away the rules in favor of him releasing his temper.

The black and white ball is lost to me when he throws himself forward, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and one hand catches at my throat while the other comes from the opposite direction, scrabbling to pull me into a headlock. I know I shouldn't fight back, the refs will pull him off me in a few seconds, but with him trying to cut off my air and his fingers cutting into my face I don't care what I'm supposed to do or not. "Get the hell off me."

My body twists, as if on it's own accord, in his grasp and my fists connects solidly with his jaw. It's a hard enough punch that he loosens his hold for a fraction of a second; long enough for me to drive an elbow back into his ribs and wind him. He let's go and whirl around, ducking as he retaliates with a swing of his own before he throws himself at me and we both fall to the manicured pitch. I can feel that I broke one, if not two, of my fingers from the initial blow as  
>I curl my hand into a fist again and strike up at his face, satisfied at the crunch of bone and the blood that instantly spurts from his nose.<p>

The referees pull us apart before either of us can land another blow and I can hear the cheers in the stands, people always attend the game against Pravus High because brawls are far from uncommon and these weren't disappointed. I catch a glimpse of red as we are pulled farther apart as Sebastian lunges forward, only to be stopped by a strong hand on his shoulder. My father will be livid that I got into a fight, with the red card Sebastian and I will have to sit out the rest of the match, leaving each of our teams without their strongest player. I'm approaching my team, breathing heavy, when a man pushes through the crowd and onto the field.

"You keep your filthy hands off of him!" He reminds me of a man at my father's last dinner party, though certainly less civil, as he bellows. "If you've hurt him I swear to God you're going to pay for it." I stay in my spot, glaring at him as he approaches, though with his fists I doubt these are empty threats.

My father steps in front of me just before the man is close enough to swing and catches the man's wrist in his hand. "Do I need to have security escort both you and your ward off school grounds? Do I need to remind you that he was the one who attacked my son?" The man seems to wilt under my father's glare and he shakes his head before slipping back towards the bleachers. "Get to the bench." My father is still scowling at the man but I know this is aimed at me and he leaves no margin for argument so I do as he says. Of course when we get home he no longer will care that I didn't start the fight, simply being involved will make him murderous.

Alec's mother is already off the bleachers and waiting besides the benches when I get there, a frown pinching her cheeks. "Are you alright?" She asks me and when I shrug she takes my face in both hands. "Stop looking away." Maryse demands when I glance away at this attention.

"Really, Maryse, I'm fine. I did more to him than he did to me." I respond but I look at her just like she wants, I've spent enough time with Alec that I sometimes feel as if this woman is my mother instead of the woman who ran away shortly after my birth.

"Well it doesn't look like you have a concussion. Which is a relief, because with you and your habits we know you've had more of those than you ought to have." Her sharps eyes inspect me, "Anything else hurt?"

I don't mention my broken fingers because she'll simply pull her husband down to look at them as well before advising my father to take me to the hospital and have them put in a cast. "No, Ma'am."

She doesn't believe me but to my relief she doesn't press the matter. "Well then if you aren't hurt I think we need to talk about you getting into these senseless fights."

"I'm going to get that lecture from my father anyways. I don't need to her it twice."

"Jace Morgenstern, I just don't know what to do with you. Heaven knows you need someone with sense to tell you about fights, someone other than your father." She practically hates my father, although they were good friends in college they had a falling out and sometimes I feel as if they are out for each others blood.

Which is why it doesn't surprise me when my father approaches the two of us, "Excuse me, Ma'am, we can not have any bystanders down on the field. Now get back to your seat or I'll have to seriously consider what influence you have on your son and his place on the team."

If I had something like this to her I would have received a tongue lashing but because it's my father she simply pulls herself to her full height and says, "I was just making sure your son wasn't hurt. Something, I notice, you didn't do." Before turning on her heel and marching back to her seat.

Though my team still manages to win the game without me I can see the anger smoldering in my father's eyes as he talks to the team after the game ends. He ends with a sharp "Get to the showers." And all the boys obey; they can tell he's upset-though they probably assume it's because of the two goals they let in within four minutes of each other. But when I move to shower off and change into my normal clothing my father stops me with a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Go get in the car. I'll be there as soon as I can. I don't want you talking to the other boys seeing as all they'll do is fill your head with foolish notions that you were correct in fighting him."

I know better than to argue with him and trudge towards the car, ignoring Will as he walks besides me. "Did you hear? You broke his nose? He's gonna know better than to screw with you again. Brilliant punch, by the way, took the stuffing right out of him." He continues to blabber on and I know my father is watching, he won't appreciate this conversation.

"Will, shut up!" I snap. "And get lost. Go talk about how 'wonderfully' you played with everyone. I'm sure everyone will forget that you almost let us lose by letting those goals in." I don't bother to see how he reacts to this as I get into the car and slam the door behind me.

I sit in the car, waiting for my father, cut off from the flurry of leaving, just outside; I glance down at my hands, still trembling from the adrenaline caused by the fight and grimace. My index and middle fingers are turning swollen and discolored, the break particularly obvious in my index finger. The longer I wait to reset it, the more painful it will be so I do it before I can change my mind; biting down hard on the inside of my mouth as I reposition the bone.

My father says nothing as he gets into the car and backs out of the parking spot.

Today I keep my eyes fixed on the seat in front of me, looking anywhere else would indicate that I'm afraid of his temper or remorseful about getting into the fight-something I refuse to do. He drives faster than he ought to, the scenery flashing past the windows and his hands practically crushing the steering wheel.

I yank at the door handle as we pull into the garage and instantly shot a glare at my father before thinking if that is the best action right now. "Really? Child-lock? Remind me to stick a crow-bar in my duffel bag so the next time I want to kill myself by jumping out of the car on the highway I don't have to worry about the damn child-lock."

"Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern I would recommend keeping that smart mouth of your shut." My father snaps, the first words he's said to me since he got into the car. He doesn't continue beyond this, we sit t here in silence for several minutes, glaring at each other in the rearview mirror; it ends when he gets out of the car. I might have counted this as a victory, he looked away first-I still know he holds all of the power since I can't even get out of the car without him opening the door for me.

"Get changed. I want you in the study in five minutes." His voice is calm as he gives me his instructions, holding the door so I can't push it all of the way open, but it carries a sharp edge as if daring me to argue with him. I keep my head up as I brush past, when he lets me out of the car. I hear my cleats scratching against the wooden floor as I walk up to my room on the top floor, just another item to add to the lost of small infractions that my father will be furious for.

Although the air outside carries a distinct autumn chill I don't bother putting a jacket over the white t-shirt I slip into. My father will more likely than not force me to stay in my room for the remainder of the day, so I don't need to worry about getting cold. My soccer jersey, now speckled with blood and grass stains is tossed into a wicker hamper as I head down to the study.

"Are we having family story time now?" I announce my entrance to my father who seems to be occupied with the book he holds in my hands. My remark seems to bounce off of him as he continues to read; he always been entirely too fond of dramatic pauses, why he's even positioned himself so that when he turns to me I will have to follow him with my eyes. "Jonathan Christopher, would you care to explain it to me?"

"He was choking me! What did you want me to do? Just wait until I asphyxiated?"

He closes the book with a snap, "Is fighting to you what sex is to other people?"

Which is entirely untrue, yes I do get in fights more often than most people, but he makes it sound like it's a daily occurrence. "I thought you hated the demons? Why does it bother you if I get in a soccer brawl with one? I bet you did it when you were my age as well!"

"This is not about me." He finally stands and slowly walks towards his desk which he places the palms of his hands on and leans forward. "This is about how you insist on making it appear as if I can't control you." Of course he would even make this about him.

I clench my hands together behind my back, the pain in my fingers grounding me, keeping me from shouting at him. "Oh, I'm sorry, Father. Did I ruin the perception that I'm your obedient little robot?"

It would almost be better if he showed how furious he is, instead of this calm façade he wears, every word calm and clipped, his face stony. "Do not use that tone with me. We both know you've been wanting that fighter for a long time." He's ignoring my question, whether it is because he has no response or no toleration for being questioned I don't know.

"You know that's only true because you wanted me to fight him. You don't like that he's better than me and he 'doesn't even belong here'. If it had been anywhere else you would have given me a pat on the back and offered me a brandy."

He's staring at me with those dark eyes of his, as if inspecting to see where these flaws had come from-he certainly didn't instill them in me. "Well then I'm just going to have to teach you when it's an appropriate time to get into fights and when it isn't. Make sure you remember when it's an inappropriate time." He opens a desk drawer and pulls something out, but he keeps it out of sight. "Come here."

I don't want to listen to him because I know that now I'm going to receive his punishment, but it will only be worse if I don't comply. So I hesitantly approach the desk, stopping so I can stare across the furniture directly at my father.

"Put your hands on the desk." He directs as he comes around the desk towards me. I know now what he is doing a painful version of the proverbial slap on the back of the hand. I comply, pressing my palms to the wooden surface, with broken fingers this will be more painful than it's been before, but I refuse to let him know that the thought of the occurrence makes my stomach clench. "Jonathan, you know this hurts me more than it hurts you. I do so hate having to punish you." Yeah, right.

"Just do it and get it done with. That way you can stop being in oh-so-much pain." I snap at him but keep my eyes fixed on the wall behind the desk.

The ruler slams down on the back of my hands; he never tells me how long it will last sometimes it's only a smack or two sometimes its more. Today he doesn't finish until both of my hands are red and throbbing, a thin line of ruby droplets well up on one hand where the edge of the ruler sliced the skin; my broken fingers blossomed with pain at this treatment, it will be relief when I'm dismissed to go to my room and I can splint them. "Do you want to tell me when you shouldn't be getting into fights or do I need to continue making sure it's clear to you?"

I can't help the response, the fact that he just punished me for a fight I didn't start forced a bubble of anger to well up in my chest and it explodes with this question. "I shouldn't get in fights at soccer games or at school." I'm calm enough when I start, I think I can hold the rest in but my tongue has always been faster than my brain. "Or any other time that it makes you look like a weak, old man who has no power over his son. If it could possibly make him look anything less than the god that he thinks he is then I shouldn't get into a fight, because people might realize that he really knows nothing about how to raise a child."

My head snaps to the side as he backhands me, "Learn to hold your tongue, boy. Or I'll make sure you won't have a choice." I swear the way his fingers rest atop his golden letter opener with his eyes flashing with fury, I know he wants me to make another remark like the previous one so he can use the tool to force my jaw open and remove the only way I ever fight against him, with my words. Maybe he won't even wait for that, he twists the blade in his hands but as he does so I see him catch a glimpse of the time on his watch and he slams the letter opened back down onto the desk. "Consider yourself lucky that I'm expecting an important phone call in just a message."

"Yes, sir." I nod, waiting for him to send me to my room.

He walks away from me, pulling his keys from his pocket as he goes. "I think you need to take some time to consider your actions and words today. I don't want you bothered by your phone or tv or anything else that could distract you. Somewhere nice and quiet, where you won't be interrupted ought to be good for you." He uses a small brass key to unlock the door in the back corner of the study and as he opens it he turns to watch my reaction. "I think the cellar ought to do, don't you?"

My father knows that I have made a point of never going into our cellar; when I was six I watched a movie my father had forbidden me to, one where a murder had snuck into houses through people's cellars. Since that day, I've had an irrational fear of entering the dark underbelly of our home, strange that I would be afraid of an imaginary monster in the basement when there was one who could be just as bad whom I ate dinner with every night.

I must have paled at this prospect because he chuckles and gestures towards the door. "Jonathan, I'm not going to wait for you to act like a child afraid of the boogie-man."

I shot him a sharp glare and step past him, head held high; I'm not going to give into his mocking and I will not let him show the unreasonable fear that is pounding in my veins. But as soon as the door is shut and locked behind me I run my hands along the walls on either side of me, trying to find a light switch. Eventually one hand bumps into a shelf and I hear something fall over, my eyes have adjusted enough that I manage to use the single strip of light coming from underneath the door, and I reach our and catch the object before it hits the floor. Although I didn't find a light switch I had been lucky enough to knock a small flashlight into my hand.

The small beam of light is enough for me to make it down the narrow stairs and into the main area of the cellar. Our house is old and at least one of the walls that creates the cellar is made out of stones and I pick my way towards it, grimacing when a small crunch signals the fact that I stepped on the corpse of a mouse. My father once went through a phase where he was obsessed with keeping dead animals in our house and now I've found where they vanished to: a stuffed owl stares at me with glass eyes, the head of a dear is perched on a ceiling, and a raccoon is permanently frozen in the act of washing a fish. It's actually rather disconcerting being in a basement filled with dead creatures, empty bird cages, and an old wardrobe shoved into the back corner.

The light on a large item covered in a sheet draws my attention, I have no idea how long I'll be in this cellar and I might as well prove to myself that there is nothing worth being frightened of down here, so I move towards it. I pause in front of the shadowy figure and shiver, now I'm regretting the fact that I didn't put a jacket on when I had the chance, its cold down here, maybe I'll find something down here. I use the tips of my finger to pull the sheet off of the object and cough as dust flies through the air, it must have been down here for years. Once my eyes have cleared from the dust I turn the light onto the item.

It must have been an ornament on my father's front porch or a gift from a client that my father accepted but then hid away, because I know I've never seen this statue before. At one point with it's graceful wings and a serene expression this stone angel must have beautiful, but now chipped and faded it looks tragic. It's crumbling, years of neglect in the damp cellar, have caused cracks to appear on it's face, making it appear heart-wrenchingly mournful, and an entire chunk of one of it's wings to fall off. This statue, held prisoner so long, reminds me too much of what I'll end up like if I never get away from my oppressive father and suddenly my heart burns with desire to free it from my father's hold.

I search through the cellar for several minutes, unceremoniously dumping boxes on the floor and destroying any sort of organization down here, as I look for something-anything-to "free" the angel. My hands, still painful, protest as I wrap my fingers around an aluminum baseball bat I find hidden under a pile of sails for our boat.

The first swing is more satisfying than I imagined it would be, the tip of one of the wings splintering as contact is made before falling to the floor. My father will be livid when he finds out that I ruined the organization of the cellar but that will be nothing compared to his rage when he learns that I destroyed an item, even one he didn't care about, that he owned. But as I continue, the features vanishing and body crumbling I can't help but feel glad that I've saved at least one thing from being totally destroyed by the man who raised me.

**An: And there you have it, part two. Would you be so kind as to drop a review? I would love to get more feedback than I did last chapter and if it that calls for asking for five new reviews I will do it. **


	3. Of Sailing and Fireworks

**a/n: Hey, y'all. Long time no see. This is for DallasFaye and xxslashmindedxx for getting me back going on this. Here's a happy chapter because even of Jace not everything can be bad and there has to be a reason he doesn't hate his father.**

**WANTED! A beta reader who will keep me on track as well as find all of the blaring mistakes I miss.**

**Disclaimer: Ain't mine.**

**Of Sailing and Fireworks**

There's a small crack on the ceiling directly above my bed, when I was a child I threw a wooden block at the surface. My father was away on a business trip at the time and so he missed the clatter as the single block was soon followed by a number of the hand carved toys. It was only when I realized some of the blocks were covered in a fine, white dust that I realized I had damaged something. To this day I still don't think he knows about it, the one thing I seem to have ever gotten away with.

My eye burn from the lack of sleep the night before as I stare blankly up at the crack. There have been times when I imagined slipping away from my body, up into the fissure, and hiding out in the darkness between floors, safe from my father's temper. As if a reminder of my father's temper the, now splinted, fingers on my hand throb angrily the welts above them a bright red.

I'm thankful he didn't see the damage I had done to the statue. When he finds out that I have ruined his property he will be furious, a few welts and a night in the cellar might seem like a good option then. But it was worth it, no matter what happens, releasing the angel was worth it.

When he knocks he doesn't wait for a response before entering my room, "Johnathon." I can feel him standing next to my bed but I can't force my eyes away from the crack. Still I nod to show that I'm listening. "I'm taking the boat out one last time this season. It's supposed to snow this weekend."

Somewhere in there he's offering a chance for me to come along. But it's not like he'll ever just ask me to come with him. If he did that meant he wasn't upset with me, which I can tell from his tone he still is. "I was going to sleep. Despite the luxurious accommodations you provided last night I could barely manage to sleep. Must have been a pea under my mattress."

He acts like he doesn't hear my comment, though I would bet good money his scowl deepened as I spoke. His fingers snap together in front of my face, startling me half-an-instant, "Look at me when I'm speaking to you. I taught you manners."

I wait a moment before obediently turning my head towards him. As soon as I finish the motion he continues speaking. "I need someone to go with me. I'll be out on the dock in fifteen minutes." Not much of a question, though I doubt he'll do anything if I refuse.

I prop myself up on one elbow, rubbing at my tired eyes with the back of a hand. "Yes, sir." He nods at me and then he is gone again, leaving me alone to get ready.

I slump back on my pillows, scowling at the mark on the ceiling. I absolutely _hate_ how weak I am. I should have said no and told him to stuff it, instead I answer him like a polite little boy. I am clay in his hands, letting him do whatever he wants to me, mold me in his image. I decide to be angry at him and he dangles a tantalizing treat in front of me and I instantly forget all my anger.

The wood floor is cool beneath my feet as I step out of bed. It's not like I have the choice to say no anymore, I already agreed to go with him. From my bureau I pull a loose t-shirt and comfortable shorts, shortly followed by a pair of dock-siders as well as the fingerless sailing gloves I wear.

If Alec were here he'd make a comment about how I looked like I just stepped out of an expensive sportswear magazine. But he isn't here so only silence and my reflection judge the outfit I'm wearing.

My stomach is growling as I pass through the kitchen, I missed dinner after the soccer game last night, and snag a muffin and banana on the way out to the boat. My father is already on the boat and waiting for me when I arrive. He doesn't even need to tell me what to do, as he starts the motor I cast off the bow and stern lines before stepping onto the vessel.

Neither of us are willing to break the heavy silence as I settle into the cockpit, my father taking the tiller a usual. Finally he speaks, "Supposed to be a good weather today."

What exactly am I supposed to do with that? I'm not going to have a conversation with him concerning the weather so I simply nod with a hum of agreement.

"Jonathon." I sigh and glance towards him, the smooth lines connected to the foresail tugging at my fingers as the wind shifts direction.

The way he's look at me when I turn makes me almost hope that he's going to apologize for the night before. But those are just hopes, hopes that I can reach and reach for but just like a moonbeam will never catch. "Yes, sir?"

"If you plan on getting in fights again make sure you do it properly. If you had used any sense when you punched him your fingers wouldn't be broken."

Of course he corrects how I fought. As soon as he thinks that he won't take any more heed to his instructions about fighting he'll condemn the way I go about it.

"I thought I wasn't allowed to get in anymore fights." I answer, keeping any agitation out of my voice.

He chuckles, "How often do you really listen to me? You and that boy will get in fights again and the least I can do is make sure my son comes out on top." His hands tighten on the wheel, "Prepare to come about."

"Ready." I reach out and grab the line opposite of me as I mull his words. This could be some kind of trap…Him trying to see if I'll listen to last night's lesson. But his word's feel genuine enough and his eyes lack the malicious glint they contain when he's punish me.

"Coming about."

Cold water sprays up as we heel to one side, the sails flapping as one line is released and the previously loose one brought in. Soon we're heading almost exactly in the direction we had been coming from and I can hear my father again.

"How did I do it wrong?" I ask.

There is an instant of silence and then he responds, critiquing how I held my hands and the angle I punched at. Soon his instructions fade away into a more comfortable silence than before, some of the tension had melted away in the shared fondness of the activity we're involved in.

The sun has moved high in the sky and my head is nodding forward until I catch it and straighten. The wind has died down and we reefed the sails for lunch, leaving us almost motionless in the lake. My nerves, on edge for the past twenty four hours, have settled and I'm feeling the effects of the long night in the basement. With the sun warming my skin and the gentle rocking of the boat it's all I can do to keep from falling asleep.

My father is relaxed in the cockpit behind me, occasionally turning the wheel one way or another to keep us on course. I stand, "I'm going to lie down up in the bow. Warn me if the wind is picking up." A sudden burst of wind against the sails while lying in the front of the boat would cause a cold tumble into the water beneath us.

"If it were last night I wouldn't." My father quips, laughing at the thought.

"Hilarious." I mutter, settling down to lay on the warm deck. Ever since I was young and my father would hold me in the bow pulpit I have always found the forward section of a sail boat to be the most relaxing place I knew, better than the soccer pitch or partying with my friends. There was something simple and safe about resting there.

It is nearly dark when I wake up, the breezing pulling at my hair. We've drifted further from shore, our large house visible across the way. Valentine sits in the cockpit, an old book is held in his elegant hands but he isn't reading it. Instead he is studying one of the houses on the far side of the shore.

I push the jib away as I sit up, rubbing my eyes with the back of one hand.

"I thought I was going to have to make sure you were still breathing soon." My father says, acknowledging the fact that I've woken up. He reaches over and tosses a sandwich wrapped in wax paper in my direction, I'm yawning when it flies in my direction and I only catch it at the last second. Few people truly understand how a sport where you sit in an object propelled by the wind can cause you to be so drop-dead tired but often I feel as if this activity is more tiring than a long soccer game.

"Shouldn't we be heading back soon?" I ask, unwrapping the meal. Docking is significantly harder once the sun has set.

Broad shoulder's shrug, "I thought we'd stay out for a little while longer. There's a fireworks show in town today and the views better from out here."

I know that. I used to beg my father to let me stay up so we could sit out on the boat in the middle of the lake and watch the distant explosions. I rarely stayed awake for the entire event, falling asleep long before we returned to shore. Those memories still cause an unexpected pang in my chest, a longing for a father I seem to have lost. Though he is sitting beside me the heavy handed man is nothing like the one who would wrap me in his jacket and carry me up to my room on those nights.

We haven't done this in years and I wonder what has caused the decision to do it now. Maybe this is his way of trying to smooth over the tensions that have been boiling recently, trying to keep the inevitable explosion at bay just a little longer. Or perhaps he's tried to remind me of how much I owe him. Or he is ready to drop world shaking bad news on me. I shake my head. We could just be enjoying fireworks.

It's obviously nearing fall and I'm glad I had left a jacket below decks the last time we took the boat up. With the black jacket on and my knees up I can enjoy the chilly breeze and smell of someone's chimney.

"I remember when you were young." Valentine's voice is soft, or soft for him. Apparently he's been remembering our old excursions too. "Before that damned attitude of yours appeared." But the way he says it makes it as appear as if he's almost fond of my temper, "You weren't nearly so hard headed back than either. You used to come and read in the study with me while I was working."

I swallow and look out on the dark water; He shouldn't be bringing those memories up. We'd both start wanting something we would never be able to have back, we both had changed too much to duplicate them. When a firework explodes over the distant mountains I'm glad, not because of the way it looks but because it means we won't continue talking about how we used to be.

Though I should be watching the fireworks I end up watching my father's profile instead. The way he says it makes it sound as if I am the reason we no longer can agree about anything. Is the man next to me a person simply driven to act against his son because of the boy's actions? His features are the same as I remember from when I was young, a few more wrinkles, but otherwise unchanged. He has remained the same and me? I have become a person that not even I know who he is- a rebellious, loud, troublesome boy who would sacrifice anything to save his image.

Sometime between these thoughts and the feeling of the bump as we reach the dock I have dozed off again. "Jonathon." The hand on my shoulder is gentle and the voice soft. It's something from a dream, my father trying to wake me before carrying me inside. "Johnathon, it's time to come in." He says again and I feel a large hand rubbing at my back, trying to awaken me.

When I blink up at him it's like I'm five all over again and I'm so tempted to raise my arms and silently beg for him to carry me inside. He could do it still, I have no doubt of that, I may have grown during the years but I was no where near his size or strength.

Instead I sit up and run a hand through my hair, "What time izzit?" Sleep slurs my words as I yawn.

"Midnight." He offers a hand to help me up and I willingly take it. Once again that little ache appears as we briefly connect in a familiar gesture but then we're on the wooden dock and separate again.

A few years ago I would have lunged at him to give him a hug before scampering off to bed. But now. I can't that was then and this is now and no matter what we wish that will never change.

I step back, "Thank you for today, sir. I hope you sleep well." The warmest goodnight I've given him in weeks leave my lips before I leave him, a reply on his lips, and walk back into the house.

**a/n: Alright it is a shorter c hapter but I felt it was needed. Not only does it add depth to the relationship it will be more impotant to show how they do actualy care about each other later on.**


	4. Of Parties and Phone Calls

**AN: Hey y'all! Check it out! Chapter. Read it tell me what you think.**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Mortal Instruments.**

**Of Parties and Phone Calls**

Despite the fact that my father is going out of town for a business trip I am still grounded. The man makes sure to remind me of this as he prepares to leave. This time the problem is that I don't have high enough grades in my chemistry class; he seems to think that if I spend the weekend locked up in my room I'll use the time to study and my grades will miraculously improve. I plan on spending the time avoiding having anything to do with my schoolwork.

""I want to see that you've made progress when I get back. Your grade drops any lower and you're off the team for at least a week. I'm _not_ having that happen. Understand?" He's sitting behind his desk while I stand on the opposite side. I know why he like this set up when he want to talk to me about anything serious: it's intended to intimidate, show that he is in complete control of anything that happens in the room.

Now isn't the time to be disrespectful. He's so close to leaving me on my own for a few days; I'm not going to ruin anything by acting out. So I nod, "Yes, sir."

"That had better be an honest answer." His eyes inspect me for a long minute as if searching to see if I have answered him honestly or not. He seems to be content with what he sees because he leans back in his seat, "There should be plenty of food in the kitchen. I gave the cook some time off. You should be able to manage something without starving. You're to go directly to school and directly home afterwards: no skipping classes or going anywhere with your friends afterwards. During the weekend I expect you to stay here and concentrate on your school."

"Yes, sir." I nod again.

There's a spot on the floor where a chair must have scraped the varnish has been worn off. I study that instead of looking at him as I answer. While I don't exactly have plans I'm not completely telling the truth with this answer and I don't want him to catch even a glimpse of this in my expression. So I content myself with watching the spot and wondering how it got there as well as how long it has been hiding there. Normally my father is so meticulously about everything that I'm surprised he hasn't had it fixed yet. Unless he doesn't know it's there which means it must be relatively new. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if the man went through the house with a magnifying glass to inspect it for any faults.

If he does that would mean he's either really horrible at it or this spot on the floor has formed since his last inspection. Maybe it was my former tutor-he was here the other day with that horrible bird of his. I never saw why he insisted on keeping a raven as a pet: when the creature looked at you with its dark, soulless eyes it felt as if it was freezing your inner being. If I ever had a pet like that I think I would last two days before dumping it on an unsuspecting victim-a present that would hook their soul like a worm.

"I'll call you when I get to the hotel." Valentine is standing and collecting his briefcase, a clear dismissal for me. Five more minutes and I have nearly a week to myself.

"Have a good trip." I force myself to keep from rushing from the room, my hand wrapped around my recently acquired cell-phone. It's been weeks since he took it and every time I asked for it he pushed the date of return further and further away, but ,apparently, his departure meant I got it back in case I had to contact him about anything.

Gaining my phone back is essentially gaining my social life back; I'll be able to know when anything exciting is happening the instant someone thinks of it instead of having to wait for it to make its way through various social circles and back to me. For weeks now I feel as I if I have missed out on everything important, simply because I couldn't get to my phone.

You never realize how dependent you are on your technology: phone, computer, TV, whatever your personal choice is until you lose it for a while. It's like a limb has been cut off and you aren't quite sure what to do without it, or at least that's how it is for me. My phone is how I stay in contact with my friends even when I'm not allowed out of the house or my father forces me to leave practice before I even get the chance to talk to them.

But now I have my phone back and my father is going out of town - Jace Morgenstern will no longer have people wondering if he's become a hermit since he never texts back or attends a single social event. Apparently Aline had one of the best parties in the history of school last weekend and I didn't even hear about it until school the following Monday. I felt, for one of the first times in my high school career, like one of the losers that never get invited to any of the parties: Simon Lewis and his "band", the new kid who is a "free spirit" and has longer hair than half the girls in school, the fat kid who no one remembers anything about other than the fact that in third period history he spewed on the back of Aline's seat after taking a drink offered by one of my team mates- a nasty combination of mustard, water, and tobacco.

I could understand why those kids always watched those of us with lives like we weren't even part of the same world as them. Going to parties, spending nights out with friends, and being involved in the shenanigans we got into must seem like a totally foreign concept.

I drop on to my bed, scrolling through the dozens of texts I received while I didn't have my phone. It had gotten around that I didn't have my phone and the messages dwindled in the latter part of my time without it, most of them annoying offers from stores I had given my number to so they would stop pestering me about joining their "members club." Others invite me to one event or another and then several messages follow from the same person inquiring on why I don't ever text them back. Finally I settle on the fact that there are no good messages to read and set about deleting them: my inbox is practically full and now that I have my phone back I plan on putting it to good use.

Of course Alec is the first person I text once I'm done clearing the other texts.

_Hey, man. Phone is back._

It only takes a second before he texts me back. If I know him at all I can guess he moping around the library waiting for someone to text him. He had plenty of friends but he never seems to be the one to initiate any sort of conversation. Despite his cocky demeanor and unruly behavior Alec is a really shy kid and he would much rather curl up in bed with a book than anything, but I'm the only one who knows that and he made me swear on my life not to tell.

**Kewl.**

He's always answering in text speak simply because he knows it annoys me. I've threatened to stop texting him completely a number of times but we both know I would never quit so he doesn't stop with his aggravating methods.

I roll my eyes at the short response and how it's spelled.

_You doing anything this weekend?_

**Party Tiki's 2night. Wanna come?**

I pause for a moment, I'll be pushing it if I go to a party the first night my father is gone. But I've missed so many that I can't say no without proving everyone right in their belief that Jace Morgenstern has become a complete bore.

_Sure. What time?_

**7:30. Aline will b pumped that ur coming.**

If Alec were sitting next to me I would roll over and punch him in the arm. The girl and I have had an on again off again relationship since freshman year and at the moment it is completely off again. She'll probably spend the whole night not talking to me while flouncing around in a short skirt, watching me as she lets others try to impress her-I bet I'll see her with at least three separate boys tonight, all of them taking full advantage of whatever shell go. She's crazy like that, hating me and then trying to make me jealous for it.

_Mhm. You sure I should come? Wouldn't want to get in between you two._

**Shut up.**

Just as Aline and I have been together a number of times the girl has made it quite clear that there is something about Alec she finds repulsive, and strangely attracted to. I think it frightens him a little bit, it would frighten anyone in their right mind, when she tells him all about her other escapades, one hand flat on his chest. I guess I'm lucky that she knows if she ever acted like that around me I would simply walk away, something that upsets her to no end.

_Alright. Tiki's at 7:30. Team gonna be there?_

**Duh. It wouldn't be a party if not.**

_Alright._

I drop the phone back on to the blanket, already bored with the conversation. I could talk to him about something meaning less for a while longer but we'll see each other tonight and it just makes it boring when we've already discussed everything suitable for parties by the time we get there. Alec isn't a particularly good conversationalist and I'm too sarcastic to keep a conversation going for long when no one will rise to the bait.

My foot taps the end of the bed as I consider my plans for the night. My dad should be out of town and he won't ever hear anything about it, it's as good of a chance to do something while grounded as any I'll get. Still I can't help feeling like the man has the ability to watch me at all times, which is totally impossible, and he'll know the instant I step foot in the garage to leave. I could always text Alec back and tell him I'm not feeling well but then he'll complain about me bailing on him again.

Now that I told Alec I'll go I have no choice but to actually make an appearance, he might have told James and some of the others on the team that I'm actually going to show up at a party for the first time in months. I can't disappoint them by skipping out.

Besides what else would I do? Sit around at home, watching movies and eating ice cream? Maybe if I were Alec's sister or any of the other girls at the school. But I'm not and that idea sounds entirely too boring for a weekend alone.

So I end up getting changed and going on a hunt for the keys to my car, it's been a few days since I've driven it anywhere. Once they've been collected I pulled a dark jacket from the closet and head out.

The party is already in full swing by the time I arrive complete with thumping music and drinks that none of us should be able to get our hands on. But people have friends and one of these happens to work at a local bar, The Hunter's Moon, who has a way of getting us as much as we can drink at each and every party. Their boss knows about it but turns a blind eye to the whole thing. He believes that teenagers should be allowed to drink, they get over the thrill of it by the time they can drink it legally and are less likely to become alcoholic, who knows if his theory is at all true, but I can tell you that all of us appreciate it.

"Jace!" I'm barely out of my car, haven't even had a chance to pull my aviators off before Alec is greeting me. The kid is popular and he still hangs around the door for me at every party we attend. He grins and holds out a red solo cup filled with amber liquid. That's another odd thing about Alec, he rarely ever drinks; we've figured this out before and now people are always calling on him to drag their sorry asses home if they can't do it themself. The beer must have recently been poured; it still has its foamy head as I step into the building with Alec by my side.

It's as if I've entered a different world than the one I've been living in for the past few weeks: instead of champagne flutes and pearls I'm surrounded by solo cups and girls wearing shirts that plunged down to reveal their chests. The music is loud and the bass heavy as girls swing their hips in time to it, boys' hands at their waists as they danced behind their girlfriend or the girl that attracted their attention that night.

I was right about Aline she is standing by the door and as soon as she sees me she moves towards me, her outfit is so revealing-consisting of a tiny cropped top and daisy dukes-that it's almost as if she isn't wearing anything. "Jace. I thought you weren't going to come. Someone told me you were at home being a good little boy and studying or doing whatever it is these days." Which is exactly what I'm supposed to be doing.

"Aline, I'm surprised to see you hear. I thought you would be off walking the streets or whatever ever it is you do these days." Her hand that was already inching its way down to my belt is quickly retracted as she scowls at me.

Her kohl rimmed eyes are flashing as she snaps her gum, "Asshole." Her hair fans out behind her and nearly hits me in the face as she stalks away, looking for some hapless victim to seduce. If she were a mythical creature she would be a Siren: beautiful and deadly, something you can't resist but should stay away from at all costs.

Alec is behind me laughing into his soda as Aline leaves. "I knew there was a reason I missed seeing you at parties. I think that may have been it." He snorts and shakes his head, "I just wish I had a camera every time she got pissed. She must think she looks injured and beautiful, really it just looks like she's been sucking on lemons." His laughter is drowned out by someone else shouting my name and then I am engulfed in a hug.

Izzy may be drop dead gorgeous, all legs and chest, but she's basically always been like a sister to me. We tried going on a few dates before, because as a male even i couldn't resist her looks, before deciding they were just too painfully awkward for either of us. "God. Jace. It's been forever since you showed your face in public, I was beginning to worry." She pulls back and her bracelets jingle on her wrist. "I totally didn't believe Al when he said you would be here."

Alec's expression is just as sour as Aline's was when his sister uses her pet name for him. He abhors it when people call him Al and Izzy knows that, the main reason why she never lets up with it. He flicks the back of his sister's head before muttering something about finding a snack and vanishes into the crowd.

I grin at him and then shrug at Izzy, "You know my dad. When he's in one of his don't let Jace out of the house moods there's nothing that can be done about it. Ii\ got away for tonight cause he's out of town for work for a few days. Otherwise I would be stuck at home documenting plants or conjugating verbs or whatever else it is he thinks are important to my life."

She laughs and grabs my hand, "Well then let's take advantage of your temporary freedom. No more sitting around and being a wall flower for you." She pulls me into the crows and past the people who greet me. She sees a girl who is dancing by herself and pushed me towards her, "Go. Have fun."

The girl is surprised as I sneak an arm around her waist with a smile of greeting. She's pretty, brunette, and has a name I don't even bother asking about it. I doubt we'll ever interact again after tonight. She tries to talk to me a few times but I'm not to terribly interested in what she has to say and she soon realizes this, falling silent as we dance together in the hot, packed room.

Soon the cups of beer I've downed have my head buzzing and leading her away from the dancing. It doesn't take long before we find ourselves on a couch, her comfortably situated on my lap as we kiss. I can already hear Alec's comments in the back of my head but I don't care, i came here to have fun and sometime having fun means doing things like this. One of her hands finds it's way down the back of my shirt as the other cups my face. She's not girlfriend material by any means but she will suffice for making out with while buzzed at a party.

Suddenly I hear a voice in my ear and I push her off to turn and glare at Alec, "Seriously dude. Chill out." He wouldn't like it if I interrupted him while he was kissing a girl, that was if he ever actually kissed girls, but somehow it's alright for him to do.

"Uh-uh." He shakes his hand and stays where he is. The girl seems to realize that we're done, at least for now, and stands. A pen finds its way to her hand and she writes her number on my arm, making me promise to call her sometime. i have no intention of doing anything of the sort but it's the only way she'll leave us alone so I agree with her.

Once she is out of sight I smack Alec in the back of the head. "What the hell was that for man?"

"Dude, your dad just called my house to ask if you were there."

"What?" This is enough to get over the annoyance of having to send the girl off. "He what? What did he say?"

Alec shrugged, though he's got concern written all over his features. "My mom just called me. She wanted to know if I knew where you were since he called about it."

"Jesus. He wasn't supposed to be back yet." I can hear the worry in my voice and clear my throat to hide it. That isn't who am I, I don't give a damn about disobeying my father or the consequences. Or at least that's what everyone here thinks.

But my father came home early and I'm as good as a dead man walking. If he called Alec's mother it meant he had been looking for a while, long enough for his furor to boil below the surface. I would return him and then what? I would be punished for direct disobedience. I'm going to regret ever coming to this party, regret ever listening to Alec's plans for the night. This much I'm sure of.

I swallow as I pull my phone from my pocket. I had felt it buzzing on and off all night but had simply passed it off as Alec and other blowing up my phone since they knew I had it back. There are a few texts from my friends but the missed calls from my father are what have me bothered. "Shit." Nearly a dozen new voice mail messages greet me as I frown down at the screen.

Alec's expression is sober; he knows my dad and I don't have the greatest relationship. I think he might suspect how bad it is but he's the type of kid to not pry about sensitive things-one of the reasons he is my best friend.

"That bad." I nod as I start the first voice mail and hold the phone to my ear, making my way towards the door and relative quiet outside as it starts.

"Jonathon Christopher. I was called home suddenly. I'm surprised you weren't here like we discussed. Call me."

A click and the next one starts. The first two or three are much the same: short, terse messages but he's still at least relatively calm. But after that it starts to go downhill, his anger becoming more and more apparent.

"Do you think this is funny? I expected more from you, brat. Should have known you couldn't be grateful for everything I've done for you. See if I trust you alone again. You better have a good reason for not picking up."

"Pick up this phone this instant, you little bastard. If you think this is a game you have another thing coming. I expect to hear from you in the next ten minutes."

I feel someone watching me as I pace and raised my eyes to meet Alec's. He's perched on the porch railing, anxiously picking at a hole in his sweater. I can tell he's just as anxious about the whole thing as I am. I send him a tight smile, trying to assure him that this is just the normal scolding any parent would give their child if they snuck out to a party while grounded.

Finally the last message begins:

"This is it, Jonathon Christopher. I've been patient with you but not anymore. It's time for you to realize that you belong to me and that stunts like this one won't be tolerated. Don't even bother crawling home, you worthless snake. I'm coming to find you and I will teach you a lesson that you aren't going to forget."

Silence follows the message before the too friendly voice prompts me to repeat or delete the messages since I haven't hung up. I listen to her say it a few times before dropping my hand to my side, screen of the phone lit up.

My friend's footsteps are quiet on the grass as he approaches me, mouth drawn into a thin, worried line. I meet his questioning gaze and shake my head. There's no way I'm just going to be able to hide out at his house until the storm passes, that's the first place my father would look and the longer I stay away the madder he'll get.

The phone eventually is returned to my pocket. I turn to look up at the stars above me and take a deep breath of the cool air. This is the last time I'm going to be able to be out like this for a long time; my father will make sure of that. "I have to get going. He's looking for me."

"I…" Alec knows he can't offer anything that will help me so he just shakes his head and steps forward. His hand is warm on my shoulder as he offers a reassuring squeeze and a quick hug, sometimes he acts more like an older brother than a friend. "Just be smart, okay? Don't try making him any madder."

I shrug, unable to promise anything. Whenever he's mad and I'm upset it's like I can't stop myself, the words that will only end in more pain quick and sharp on my tongue. When I step away from him, digging my keys of the pocket of my jeans, he sighs and lifts a hand in farewell.

For once the radio in my car is silent as I drive my thoughts are loud enough to fill the empty spaces the music normally takes up. The vehicle devours the dark road in front of it as I turn towards home, knowing that my father will be waiting for me. He's waiting for me and the words he said in the message are not a threat. They are a promise.

**a/n: And there it was. So reviews por favor. I shall do my best to have a chapter up within a month but that shall not happen without reviews.**


	5. AN

Hey, loves!

What Alex isn't dead? No. I'm not. *celebrates* {There have been a few close calls,the latest involving cokeheads with machetes.} It's jusy been a hella crazy winter And I have neither had time to write or money for the internet. But I'm back now. kind of. I'm going to be counting my family v next well And well have a chapter for you then. I can't promise when the one after that will be because my dad And I it taking our boat to central . But I love you And shall have a chapter up soon.

Loves,

Alex


	6. Of Dark Houses and Greek Lore

**a/n: Look!. So yeah. Review. I want seven before I update again. Seven okay?**

**Charrie Submission. I am need in of a minor charrie to add to this story. So give me ideas. I will incorporate into the story. **

**Disclamier: Still not mine.**

**Of Dark Houses and Greek Lore**

I press my foot down on the brake until my car is creeping along over out long driveway. I expected to see the house brilliantly lit up when I arrived, my father's silhouette in the window of his study as he waits for me. Instead it is just as dark as I left it, the security lights the only things illuminating the outside of the building. My head lights bounce off a window back to me as I near, once again showing how empty the house seems to be.

He told me he would be looking for me. But he would never actually do that, because he knows he holds too much power over me. He says he is coming to look for me and I come back like a kicked dog with its tail between its legs. But if he is waiting for me I think the lights would be on and he would be drinking the liquid that burns on the way down and then turns his anger into something even more vicious.

Yet the lights are off and the house is silent. What if he is lurking somewhere in the dark? Has he become the imaginary monster from the cellar that I feared for so long? He could be waiting for me in the dark, swirling his drink and glaring at the driveway as I make my way to the house.

I park in my spot and climb out, running a hand down the smooth side of the car as I take a breath to steady myself. He is getting in my head and making far more worried about what is to come than I ought to be. A lecture, a few bruises, being sent to my room to think about my actions. Surely that is all that is in store for me. Yet my mind keeps coming up with horrible punishments he could use instead and my heart pounds away in fear of them being dealt out. He smells to smell fear and if I walk in like this he will know that he has already won.

After a few minutes the motion sensor clicks off and I am left alone in the dark with nothing but his car and mine. There is no putting it off any longer-I have to go inside the house and face my angry father.

The keys are tucked in one pocket and I take one final breath before a relaxed smile appears on my face. The strong Jace that attends the school is firmly in place and the scared boy is locked away behind my skin. My steps are even as I step to the door and open it. The lights flick on instantly and I have to blink to deal with the sudden, unexpected change.

"Well, well, well." His voice is low and comes from down the hallway. My tawny eyes move towards him, seeing the fierce lines drawn across his face as he sits in an arm chair in the living room at the end of the hall. "Look who decided it was time to drag their worthless corpse home." I shift and shrug, keeping my expression as purposefully relaxed as I can possibly manage.

He snaps his fingers together and points to the ground in front of him. It's clear that he wants me to move there and I silently follow his directions though I move as slowly as I can get away with. Still it's far sooner than I would have liked when I'm standing in front of him. "Don't slouch." I roll my shoulders back at his critique and raise my chin, back as straight as if there were a board down the back of my shirt. He sits and studies me, taking a sip of brandy as he does so, "You've once again proved that angels' faces hide devils' souls."

A bit of an overreaction, I think. I left and went to a party without permission, not gone on a killing rampage at an orphanage. It was something every teenager ever has done and he was treating it as if I were the first person who had ever disobeyed their parents.

Still I nod my head in a quick motion, "Yes, sir." I have to catch the tip of my tongue between my teeth to keep from making a snarky comment. I know for a fact that saying anything like that won't be appreciated at all at this point. So I have to content myself with allowing the voice in my head to say it and imaging his reaction. He studies me with his dark, suspicious eyes for a few minutes before he stands.

I am taller than most of the boys in my year at school, a trait that has helped me with my athletic pursuits. But when my father stands in front of me I have to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. He dwarfs me both physically and mentally, it is times like there, when he is more destructive than a bull in a china shop, that I become accurately aware of that. If he wanted to he could break me as easily as a troublesome child smashes a china doll on the floor when throwing a fit.

This isn't a very comforting thought considering how upset he is. Who is to say that he won't do something like this and leave me bloodied and bruised on the floor of our living room? Like he said earlier-the maid has the weekend off. There would be no one to see what he was doing until he was too late for anyone to help me.

His footsteps are even and his gaze even as he approaches me. I do my best to keep my posture and expression neutral though I'm sure his predatory senses have locked on the way my pulse flutters under the pale skin of my throat as my heart betrays my fear-speading up the closer he comes to me. He chuckles as he places his hand on my shoulder and I flinch, "I was just like you once. Thinking that my father knew nothing. That I was a big seventeen year old who knew what was best for me." He sounds friendly but I know this is the calm before the storm; we have been through similar situations too often for me to be comforted by his genial tone. "But guess what?"

"I don't know, sir."

And just like that the storm hits just as hard as he does, causing me to stagger back a step with the force of the blow. "I was just as wrong as you are. You are a weak, idiotic little boy who needs me to help make his choices just like I needed my father. I only what is best for you Jonathon Christopher. I make all of my choices to make sure that you will turn out to be the best man you could possibly become. But you insist on defying me by making the worst choices you can."

Valentine steps towards me to close the distance between us that appeared me when the back of his hand caught on the side of my face. "I learned my lesson. You'll learn yours too, boy." Now that he has gotten through the act of calm I can see the furor burning in his eyes as he narrows them. His hand is a vice on the back of my neck as he pulls me towards him.

And suddenly all I want is to be out of there-to be a six year old boy listening to his daddy tell him about their vacation plans. But I'm not; I'm a seventeen year old who, at the moment, is very, very afraid of the man in front of him.

He knows it too, I can see it in the glint of my eyes, and he sees my terror and is enjoying it. He is enjoying my terror and that is almost worse than anything he could do to me. This man, this monster, is my father that I used to adore and now he is watching me like it is some sort of horrible sport. "Dad, please." My hand is at his wrist, eyes turned up to him, "Please."

He doesn't seem to hear me as his hold tightens again, keeping me firmly besides him. "Enough. Don't you dare think you can get away with what you did just by asking. You need to learn your lesson."

I can't even try to get away from him as he keeps the firm hold on the back of my neck and uses this to steer me from the room. And if I did manage to break free where on Earth would I go? I would still be stuck somewhere in the house and his anger would just be worse than it is now. So, for the moment, I am silent as he directs me into his study.

I don't know what it is about this room that he enjoys so much, why this is where he always brings me for a scolding or for a punishment. But I know that by this time I hate being in the room lined with books and antiques as much as I hate the cellar. There is nothing in this room but anger and pain, nothing in the least bit good.

When he pushed me into one of the chairs besides the desk I remain where I'm put. I'm here now and I'll have to accept the consequences of my actions. I made the mistake of going out after being told I was to stay at home, but more than that I made the mistake of being caught. Maybe if I had been a little more careful and listened to my phone he wouldn't e this upset. But as they say hind sight is twenty-twenty and there's nothing I can do to go back in time. I'll simply have to do better next time.

That is if there is a next time. Which I doubt there will be for a good long time, he won't be leaving me alone in the house anytime soon. I'll be his little prisoner until this blows and knowing him this may never blow ever, I may never ever be allowed out of the house by myself again.

And I know that my mind is running wild, but sometimes that has to happen. Sometimes you have to imagine the worst so that even when the reality is bad it isn't as awful as you imagined. If any time called for imagining the worst to prepare for what lies ahead now would be it.

He's moved away from me now, gazing pensively into the fireplace in front of him. He always has a fire burning in there, even when it's summer and much too hot to handle, and now is no different the wood popping occasionally as flames chew through it. He most have built it while he was waiting for me to return home, the warmth of it only adding to the tension of the room.

"Did you honestly think you could get away with it?"

Suddenly all I want to do is laugh. This can't be real; it's all too much, like some seen out of a badly done thriller movie-the lights off, the fire crackling, the question. It's overdone and dramatic and exactly like my father likes. But a part of my mind finds the whole situation ridiculous that all of this is simply because I did what every teen has done and snuck out to a friend's party.

He draws the iron fire poker out and prods at the kindling as he waits for a response from me. When none comes he turns his head in my direction, "Come now, Jonathon, you know you can speak freely with me. Did you think you could actually get away with it?"

Speak freely with him? We both know that is just as much of a lie as pretending we're a happy family so I keep my silence, better to do that than answer the wrong way and upset him even further. Eventually he seems to accept that I'm not going to answer him and returns the poker to its stand beside the fire. He steps towards me again and I can feel my muscles tensing as I watch his feet approach.

"Do you think that you can just do as you please? Do you think that I don't know how impertinent little bastards like you act when they get left alone." His voice is a low purr as he inspects me from above, "Do you really think I'm as dumb as you seem to?" I hear the pop of his joints as he crouches in front of me so that he can look into my eyes, a sound that reminds me that this man so much larger than life is slowly growing old.

His hand is practically gentle as he takes hold of my arm and rolls the sleeve of my jacket up past my elbow. I want to question him and ask what he is doing but I know I'll find out soon enough. He is going to punish me, 'teach me my lesson', and I'll find out then.

And just like always he looks directly me into my eyes and speaks, "You know this hurts me more than it hurts you." I can't help but make a scoffing noise more in the back of my throat, he says that again and again but I still have yet to believe him. He is wordless as he repeats the motions again, leaving both of my arms exposed as he moves away.

"Have you ever heard the story of Icarus?" My father is standing in front of the fire again, poker in hand, "Icarus was the only child born to his father. As the only son the man only wanted what was best for the boy, giving up much to provide for him, to make him happy. The man constructed a list of the wings in order to allow him to fly. "

I note the fact that he omits the fact that the wings were created in order to allow the boy to escape a prison. Of course he wouldn't mention that, it could send the wrong message.

"As the boy put the wings on his father gave him a warning, not to fly too close to the sun or too close to the water. Of course the man had reason for his warning, he wanted what was good for the boy. But Icarus was a headstrong teenage boy, thought he knew better than his father, that be was old enough to make his own decisions. No sooner had the man turned his eyes away than Icarus was taking advantage of the trust the man had put in him. He flew up into the sky, kept going up and up because he pictured himself invincible. But he was disobedient and flew too high, flew too close to the sun. And because he was disobedient he was burned by the sun, the wings were destroyed, and it resulted in his death."

"Because that's what happens to disobedient bastards," The fire poker is still in his hand as he turns back to me, the end now hot from the fire he had been stirring as he spoke, "They get burnt."

I know. I know what he is going to do and I open my mouth to protest. The weird don't even make it to my mouth before he has my wrist in his hand, turned it so the underside is up, and the hot metal pressed to the sun. And everything I was going to say is lost.

I've burnt myself before while picking up hot dishes or toying with a friend's lighter but it was nothing like this. My father is still speaking as I my arm held in his hold but I can't hear it over the rushing in my head. I don't know if its two seconds or two minutes before he removes the metal but I know it was far, far too long of a time either way.

The smell of singed hair and burnt skin cause my stomach to twist and it's only by clenching my teeth that I keep the bile in my stomach down. I have to force myself to take deep breaths to keep my head on straight, to keep the throbbing pain of the burn from taking over, keeping my compusre steady. My eyes remain on my father instead of looking at my arm, afraid of what I'll see there.

But what I see is just as bad. He is once again at the fire, poker to the flames, heating it once more. He must know I've realized he's coming back as my breath hitches and I try to speak again, "Dad. Please." And I hate myself for sounding that pathetic and weak, like I'm five years old again. But I can't do anything else; I can't let him touch me with the hot iron again.

He ignores the words as he steps in y direction, his eyes focused on the arm he hasn't touched. And I can't do it anymore, can't try and pretend like I' stronger than this, stronger than him "Daddy, please." Words. A name. Things that I haven't used in so long that I barely remember them, because he isn't daddy anymore,, hasn't been for years. But maybe something in this, in the use of the name will stop him.

There seems to be a moment of hesitation, like he's remembering that I'm his son and, despite how grown up I pretend to be, a child. But then he blinks and his hand is on my again and the only thing I'm aware of is the pain and the smell and the desperate desire to have not gone to the damned party in the first place.

I don't even take notice of him returning the poker to its spot by the fire as clench and unclench my fists, trying to calm my ragged breathing and keep the pained noises at bay so he can't hear how much it hurts me. I'm just aware of his presence in front of me again and my breath catches. Not again. Please, not again.

It's just two burns, marks that will fade into scars in the crooks of my arms, it could have been much worse, broken bones or lacerations that needed stitches. But there was something horrible about this maybe it was the blank expression on his face or the fact that this was truly deserved, was a proper punishment, which makes the mental distress of it nearly as bad as the pain pounding away in my arms.

His hand runs over the top of my head, patting golden curls the way he did when I was little and trying to get his attention. But even this isn't truly a friendly gesture. Not anymore. Nothing can be friendly from him anymore. Still the motion is almost comforting, a reminder that he isn't just a monster but that he is also the man who has taken care of me for my entire life.

It continues for a moment before the fingers tighten their hold, pulling at the hair instead of stroking it and he leans down to speak into my ear, "Jonathon Christopher, Icarus was burnt by the sun before it destroyed him. You've already been burnt. Let's hope you learned your lesson better than he did."

**a/n: Bam. There. Got it. Now your turn. Reviews.**


	7. Of School and New Students

**a/n: I knew I promised this a while ago. But then there was life and family stuff. Like major life and family stuff. My mom had a stroke, my house got broken into, I lost a job, I worked on a sailboat for two month which meant no internet or computer, death of a close friend, and some other stuff. So all of everything got put on the back burner. But here I am ready to go. **

**IMPORTANT: I was looking for a character last chapter and while some submitted ideas, some I might implement, and I didn't find quite what I need. So here's the next way to find a character. I'm going to be doing a submit your own character. Of any and all characters submitted I'll be implementing one as a major character. Two additional ones will be chosen to be used as secondary characters. Interested? Here's the form I need. **

**Name: **

**Age: **

**Detailed description of appearance: **

**Short bio:**

**Personality:**

**Other:**

**Additionally you have to submit a ****_good_**** review with this. And by good I don't mean that one that favors me and speaks to my ego-I have big enough of one already, no need to give me undeserved praise. I want a review that tells me what you love, what you hate, what you want more of, what you want less of, why you started this story and why you kept reading it, would you recommend it to others on the site, what's one thing I could improve, and generally everything you would want to get in a review for one of your stories. **

**Disclaimer: But, seriously, I don't own it.**

Alec's expression is serious as I turn the dial to open the locker, each movement aggravating the blistered burns hidden under the sleeves of my shirt, "I was worried when you didn't answer any of my texts. Your dad seemed pretty pissed."

He had no idea. We had seen my dad pissed on numerous occasions, every time we lost a soccer match or the value of his stocks fell. But this time he had been more than pissed, he had been caught in a murderous rage all weekend and I had the fortune of being the only one around to deal with it. I was surprised that I had been allowed to go to school at all.

Two deep burn marks on my arms, an ugly green bruise on my ribs from the night before, and a stomach tight from being locked in my room sans meals for two days were the only things I had to show for that rage of his. Or course I doubted that he was actually finished with punishing my disobedience or teaching me just how much control he had over my life. He was probably thinking of some twisted ordeal that he would spring on me as soon as I thought it was safe. It seemed to his favored method of operation-direct and brutal initial onslaught, a moment when the storm seemed to pass, and then a knife in the back when I wasn't looking.

"He took my phone again." I say in explanation as to why I hadn't any of the texts my friend claims to have sent. And it was the truth. He had confiscated my phone as soon as he thought of it and then promptly crushed it under the heel of one foot to ensure I didn't try retrieving it without him noticing. "Gave me a lecture about not sneaking out and tried grounding me. But that's bullshit since I'm already grounded until I die."

Which wasn't a pleasant notion no matter how long or hard I looked at it. Knowing him he'd find the key to immortality and keep my prisoner in his house until I passed away of old age. He'd do it just because he thought that since I was born to him he'd hold complete power over me for all eternity. But I wasn't planning on letting that happen. I was counting the days until I turned eighteen and could back my bags, say aufeidersen, and never see him or is house again.

I pull the books I need for my next class from my locker, gritting my teeth as they jostle the injuries on my arms. I'll have to give that to my father, he did place them exactly where they would cause the most discomfort, every time I moved my arms there was a flare of the burning pain that set my teeth on edge and I had to consciously keep from wincing.

And though I tried to keep any discomfort hidden Alec caught the grimace and there's instantly a hint of concern in his bottle blue eyes. He knows.

I know he knows. But he's also that friend who you can trust to know something like this. He's not going to insist I call the police or run off to tell his parents or a teacher. He's good like that; he can keep not only his secrets but those of his friends as well.

The locker door is shut just as Aline decides to make her first appearance of the day, looking like she just stepped off the set for a Britney Spear's video-the studs in her nose and her navel matching, heels a little too high for high school hall ways, and lipstick marring the stick of the lollipop in her mouth. And though I can't stand her incessant whining or her psycho bitch tendencies I do occasionally miss having her under my arm as we walked through the school, the power couple that everyone wanted to be. But as soon as I think this she opens her mouth and I'm glad that we seem to be officially off again, "Did you get in trouble with your daddy, Jacey-Wacey?"

I roll my eyes at her and decide to see if just ignoring her will be enough for her to move on to another victim. Maybe my father's lessons are starting to sink in, not letting forth the first snarky comment that comes to mind and instead holding my tongue.

But, of course, that isn't enough to get rid of the girl. If anything it just makes her feel as if she's been given permission to keep at it, "Oh? Is poor, little Jace not going to say anything? Did his mean daddy tell him he couldn't go to parties with the big kids anymore? Poor baby."

"At least I have a daddy to tell not to go to those parties." My tone mocks hers as I scowl down at her, "He didn't run off with the first cheap whore that crossed his path."

If looks could kill then I'd be dead in the hallway between the English department and the cafeteria. But I'm well aware by now that looks don't kill so I just meet her glare with a raised eyebrow. I doubt she'll actually have anything else worthwhile to throw at me. Normally if the person she's trying to get to doesn't visibly react within the first two or three comments she either cycles back and starts saying the same things over or she stalks off to come up with new insults.

"Go fuck yourself, Jace." She pushes between Alec and I as she marches over to her waiting posse. I hear a few comments about what an asshole I am as they move off, but I've heard that often enough that it has no effect on me whatsoever.

Alec's comment of, "Someone forgot to take their crazy pills today." Has me laughing as we turn into history class just as the bell rings. Seats are taken and it isn't long before I'm lost in the haze of boredom that comes with taking notes on Mesopotamian culture.

It's the door opening that calls for a brief pause in the lecture, something that every single student in the room is thankful for. As one we turn to look at whoever caused the disruption. And just like that they become even more valuable. Teachers here are notorious for humiliating the new students by asking nosy, personal questions they have no business asking; with any luck this new girl will be subject to this and in doing so will free the rest of us from hearing a single more sentence about anything that can be remotely related to Mesopotamia.

She isn't much to look at, too short to be really noticeable with red hair that could handle a good brushing and clothes that aren't suited to her body type. Even my thoughts sound like Aline and this just cements that fact that I want _nothing_ to do with her for a good chunk of time. I twirl a pencil between my fingers and sit back in my chair as she approaches the front to talk to the teacher. I exchange looks with one of my teammates and he shrugs, thinking the same thing I am-a new girl is always a good thing to have, more options for everyone, but she wasn't anything spectacular to look at.

"Well, well, well." Professor Jeremiah clears his throat as he repeats the word over and over. I almost want to jump up and get him a glass of water; see if that would keep him from being so horribly dry. He'd do better as a monk or librarian than a man who is supposed to keep unruly teens in check all day. Even at his loudest his voice is so quiet that he is almost silent and despite his thick glasses I'm positive that he has cataracts that prevent him from really seeing what is going on in his classroom. "It seems like we've gotten a new student. Say hello class."

And I can almost hear the sound of two dozen sets of eyes being rolled at the stupidity of it as everyone grumbles a hello.

"If you'd like to introduce yourself…"

It's obvious that's the last thing this girl wants to do. She looks like she'd rather the ground just opened up and swallowed her or a piano fell from the ceiling and crushed her or a million other things would happen that would prevent her from having to complete the task at hand. But after a moment when she has no such luck she opens her mouth to speak, "Well, my name is Clary. I just moved here from New York city with my mom and stepdad…"

A city girl. She'd be disappointed with where she was stuck now. Though it wasn't completely tiny our city was by no means comparable to New York City. At least she probably wasn't stuck miles off in the country like my family's estate. She'd be able to have something to do to occupy her time other than reading old books and hiding from her angry father.

"And what do your parents do?"

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and then back, "My mom's an artist and my dad is opening a new book store."

Strike that. She probably did spend all of her time reading old books. But at least that was by her own choice and not because she was expected to have all of Dante, Chaucer, and Medici memorized by heart because they were somehow still relevant to the modern world. She probably read Dickens and had conversations with her normal family about whether the musical version of Oliver Twist did the book justice or not.

Sometimes, after days when my father has been unbearable, I try and imagine what my classmates' lives are like. What they talk about and watch and whether or not they getting lectured for forgetting how to conjugate an archaic Latin word. And though I know their lives are by no means perfect I can't help the little bubble of jealousy that is constantly hanging in my chest. If they knew that they would probably all be besides themselves with wonder. What on Earth could popular, good-looking, rich, Jace Morganstern have to be jealous of?

Bitterness doesn't become anyone well but at least I play mine off as cockiness. And that is only acceptable because everyone in the school wishes they had something like my life. If they ever knew that half of my sarcastic comments derived from some form of jealousy I would never be able to show my face in public again.

She's answering another question, something I missed while my mind wandered, but judging from the answer it had to do with hobbies, "I do lots of art." And somehow this doesn't surprise me at all. With her loose green shirt and the pencil smudge on her hand she seems like the type who would rather spend hours creating a perfect scene than dealing with stupid teenagers.

Our professor seems to have decided that is enough questioning, for the moment, and takes out a seating chart; a moment of studying it and she is assigned to her seat. There's a look of relief on her face at having escaped without having to answer anything awkward and personal as she makes her way down the row towards me. Eyes are scanning the class and then back again, I see the way they pause on me and raise one eyebrow, instantly her blush is as red as her and she ducks her eyes away again.

There are two ways girls seem to react to me, either they decide that they ought to throw caution to the wind and flirt shamelessly or they stare until they realize I'm aware and then go back into their shells. Though both get rather aggravating I have to admit that being bold is generally more appealing, at least they know what they want, as long as they're classy enough to at least introduce themselves before they pull me into the closest janitor's closet.

She passes by me and sits down in the chair. There's the normal introduction and then I hear her sifting papers around as the lecture picks up from where it left off. After a moment I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end in response to being stared at, I turn slightly and flick my eyes in her direction. And just as I suspected she's focused on me. The cock y side of me wonders if she's looking just to look or if the artist in her is attracted to my appearance.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer."

As soon as the words are out of my mouth some of the interest fades from her eyes. I can already tell that one sentence was enough to form an opinion of me in her mind-pretty, popular asshole, and I'm not going to say that she would be too far off.

Her lips twitch in a slightly annoyed smile, "Maybe I should take a video instead. Prove that people like you can actually form coherent sentences."

I wasn't expecting a snarky response from her. I figured there would just be more blushing and head ducking and so I give a slightly amused chuckle, "Oh? People like me?"

She gives me a flat look, "People who spend more time checking their appearance in the mirror than they do concentrating on anything that requires thinking."

And if she's already dismissed me that quickly I'm fairly certain that she'd not going to be one of those girls who gets blown away by a heated look or a laughing comment. And though she isn't my type at all I can tell she would be a bit of a challenge to even befriend and if there's one thing that I enjoy, it's a good challenge.

**a/n: I know the ending is hella awkward. But that's because I cut the chapter halfway through since I figured you would rather get a shorter chapter with a lame ending now than waiting another owever long for a longer chapter. So yeah…**


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